


12 Drabbles

by calavarna



Category: Glee
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calavarna/pseuds/calavarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Try to write different categories of fic (angst, fluff, UST, etc) in 100 words exactly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12 Drabbles

**Angst**

September arrives as it always has, in the dying embers of summer and the inescapable progression of the Gregorian calendar, and Blaine immerses himself in textbooks and homework. He holes up in his room with a year's worth of readings, fictional characters the only audience to his muted symphony of rustling pages and the scratch of pen on paper.

It's not enough, though. His mind is sharp but the flood of knowledge brings the walls of small-town Ohio crumbling down around him and among the ruin he realises: equations and participles won't bridge the distance between Lima and New York.

 

 **AU (Alternate Universe)**

"New Directions are like rockstars," the boy says, and Blaine's stomach twists into a knot of jealousy tempered by intrigue. It's difficult to catch a breath amid the claustrophobic swarm of students gathering in the quad, and the warm hand that wraps around his and leads him on a merry dance through the dense crowd leaves him breathless in a different way.

On the steps on the quad, the boy - Kurt - joins the haphazard formation that seems somehow befitting of its members and begins to sing. The corners of Blaine's mouth curve up into a smile. It's amazing.

 

 **Crack!fic**

"I'm transferring to Dalton."

Blaine drew back sharply. "Oh."

"You don't want me to transfer?"

"No! I mean yes! Of course I do, it's just Dalton is... unique."

Kurt raised a curious eyebrow but kept silent, waiting for Blaine to elaborate.

"It's not something I can explain; spend enough time there and you'll understand. Just don't join the debating team."

"What's wrong with the debating team?"

"The corridor that leads to their practice room has a tendency to reroute to unexpected places if it doesn't like you. And, um, every second Thursday they turn into women for a half hour."

 

 **Crossover**

Blaine clambers out of the taxi and stands at the curb, watching the parade of life pass by in the unfamiliar form of red buses and black cabs. The shriek of a siren cuts through his awe and he stumbles to the pavement, unused to the narrow streets and left-hand traffic.

Kurt grabs him and pulls him out of the way as a man sprints past, scarf trailing behind him. A second man, wrapped in a knitted monstrosity, shouts an apology over his shoulder as they dart away.

Kurt turns, tracking their path with narrow eyes. "I like his coat."

 

 **Death**

Reality has long ceased to have meaning and Blaine feels the phantom pain that lances through his heart as deeply as he feels the burn of scalding coffee on his bare skin. His fingers tremble and twitch, unable to bear the weight of a twelve ounce cup and the shattered porcelain lining the floor cuts at his heart more cruelly than at his feet.

For all he wants to cry, to rage against the inevitable, his courage has run dry and the hooded spectre of death doesn't ask but rather demands he yield to its supremacy.

Blaine bows his head.

 

 **Episode related**

"I auditioned for Tony," Blaine says, the words spilling out so quickly that they almost get lost in the plume of steam that rises from his coffee when he removes the lid.

"That's... good." Kurt pauses, gnaws distractedly at a pilfered piece of biscotti, wills his mind to process and discard the budding jealousy and move on to more pleasant feelings. "You'll be wonderful."

He links his fingers with Blaine's and summons up the strength to maim the cold hand of jealousy that threatens to wrap around his heart and wring out all his hard earned hope.

He's happy.

Really.

 

 **First Time**

"You know," Kurt said, his voice low and surprisingly steady considering Blaine had just delivered a masterclass in cocksucking. "According to some definitions, we just had sex."

"Yeah." A million thoughts rushed through Blaine's mind - faint hysteria at the knowledge he had, for all intents and purposes, just lost his virginity, self-recrimination that he hadn't noticed it himself, a sudden urge to explain that he hadn't planned it and he wasn't some sexual predator masquerading as a school boy - so he settled for a soft smile, the corners of his mouth upturned in pleasant surprise. "Yeah, we did."

 

 **Fluff**

"It's EBGDAE, highest to lowest. Easter Bunnies Get Drunk At Easter."

Blaine plucked the guitar strings slowly, each note ringing out with a clarity that Kurt could never hope to reproduce even if he wasn't fighting a losing battle to still the tremors of suppressed laughter at the mental image of fluffy bunnies and a bottle of chablis.

It was these moments he liked best, the tranquil summer evenings whiled away in the shade of the setting sun, cradled by a warm breeze and darkening sky, just the brush of calloused fingers against his and the music they made. Together.

 

 **Humor**

"The logic behind your song choices never fails to confuse me."

"I was keeping with the Beatles and birds theme; I thought you of all people would appreciate that. I debated changing a couple of words to, you know, encapsulate recent events but the extra syllables messed with the rhythm and I couldn't demean the perfection that is the Lennon-McCartney songwriting partnership."

"Of course. You wouldn't want to offend a dead man, would you?"

"I knew we'd see eye-to-eye on this."

"Out of interest, what were you going to change the lyrics to?"

"And your newly dead bird can sing."

 

 **Hurt/Comfort**

The Buckeyes' halfback stumbles into the end zone and an anguished wail rises up from the sea of yellow and blue in the crowded stadium. Blaine conjures up a smile as Burt and Finn rocket up out of their seats and into each other's arms. He's slower to rise, applause less animated, his father's words echoing in his ears: _tone down the flamboyance and you might fit in._

Blaine jumps as Burt slings an arm around his shoulders, lifting and holding him in the most ridiculously over-the-top hug he's ever received.

Screw toning _anything_ down.

He fits in just fine.

 

 **Smut**

The sheets were twisted and crumpled beneath him, chafing against clammy, over-sensitised skin despite a thread count that was bordering on the ridiculous. Blaine drew a ragged breath and arched up, seeking the heat and friction of Kurt's cock against his own, the scrape of Kurt's teeth against his clavicle and the sweat-slicked slide of skin-on-skin points of pain and pleasure in the haze of passion.

He tangled his hands in Kurt's hair and pulled him up for a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate as they ground against one another, deliberate thrusts growing quick and shallow in the rush of release.

 

 **UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension)**

Sometimes Blaine gets this look in his eye, a sort of raw longing that darkens his gaze to a half-lidded smoulder and then disappears in the time it takes for his eyelids to complete their downward journey, for those obscenely beautiful eyelashes to sweep against his cheek and flutter open once more.

It's gone so quickly that Kurt thinks he must be imagining it, just another figment in a sea of delusions, but fantasy and reality make no difference when every inch of him is alight with desire.

He looks back, and wonders at the reddened flush of Blaine's face.


End file.
